[13] I know of no city honoured with so proud a list of illustrious men in so many departments of literature, as Cordoba. Strabo (Cap. iii.) speaks of the learning of its inhabitants, and so does Cicero (Orat. pro Archiâ). The two Senecas and Lucan among the Romans; Averröes; his rival Avicenna, and Abenzoar, distinguished Arabic writers; the three most famous Hebrew Rabbies, Abenezra, Kimki and Maimonides; Ferdinand the logician; Juan de Mena, the father of Spanish poetry; Arias Montano, Nebrixa, Gongora, the poet, and Cespedes, the every thing—were all natives of Cordoba. Repeated attempts have been made to revive the spirit of learning in this interesting capital, and the literary societies there have published several striking appeals on the subject; but Cordoba continues without even a bookseller’s stall;—a striking monument of the triumphs of monkery and ignorance over all that is great, good and generous in the human character.
[14a] Notwithstanding the many discussions as to the birth-place of Cervantes, and the numerous copies that have been made of the register of his baptism, since the claims of Alcalá to the honour of his birth-place have been admitted, it is surprising that no one should have remarked that the name of his father is spelt Carvantes in the original parish record, which I consulted. It is in the oldest of the registers of the church of St. Mary Mayor, at page 192.
Fray Jayme Villanueva mentioned a curious circumstance to me at Valencia, connected with Cervantes;—that among the ecclesiastical documents he had examined at Tarragona, there were a great number of letters addressed to the Cabildo, relating various acts of robbery and murder committed by Roque Guinart and his band, (vide Don Quixote, Vol. IV. Par. ii. Cap. 60,) and imploring their assistance to rid the country of these freebooters: these letters are dated 1614. Now the second part of Don Quixote was published in 1615. How soon did Cervantes avail himself of these events, and how rapid must his composition have been!
Cervantes! idol of my happiest hours!
Generous and joyous spirit! who hast brought
From thy rich storehouse of romantic thought
Wisdom and truth and valor!—All the powers
Of Poetry and Music fill thy bowers.
Proud is the monument thy hands have wrought,
And beautiful the lesson thou hast taught;—
And now the muse of many nations showers
Garlands upon thy tomb:—yet thou wert poor
And desolate in life—of all bereft,
In misery and melancholy left
To fix thy dim eye on a prison door!
Shame on the world! No other star shall shine
Upon that world with such a light as thine!“Se engendró (el Quixote) en una carcel donde toda incomodidad tiene su asiento y donde todo triste ruido hace su habitacion.”
Prologue to Don Quixote.
[14b] Moratin’s translation of Hamlet is as unworthy of the Spanish as of the British bard; but any prose rendering of the beautiful poetry of this extraordinary tragedy must be intolerable to an English ear.
[15] As none of his writings have probably reached England, I shall be excused for introducing a specimen of his verses from the above comedy. Take, for example, the description of a gaming house:
Don Carlos.
¿Aun la colera se dura?
¿Que viste tan malo alii
Que asi te altera?Don Severo.
Yo vi
Un infierno en miniatura
Y no merece otro nombre,
Porque se deja al entrar
Cuanto puede recordar
Los privilegios del hombre.
En un ahumado aposento,
Anegado en porqueria,
He visto en un solo dia
Lo que no pudiera en ciento.
Sobre una mesa ó bufete
Alii un mandil se descubre,
Que mas empuerca que encumbre,
Y al que se llama tapete.
Yace encima un mal belon
Moribundo, desdichado,
Quien, á pesar de su estado,
Manifestó la intencion
Que de alumbrarnos tenia;
Mas le faltó un requisito,
Y fue el aceite maldito,
Que estaba en Andalucia.
Pues de esta mesa al redor,
Y por tal luz alumbrados,
Encontramos ya sentados,
Esperando un redentor,
A una percion de estafermos,
Que por ser desaliñados,
Flacos, puercos y estropeados,
Me parecieron enfermos.
Pero ¡ai Dios y que sudores
Tuve! ¡Que susto me diste
Cuando al oido me dijiste
Estos son los jugadores;
Luego descubri al banquero
Fumando su cigarrito,
Manejando aquel librito,
O recogiendo dinero.
A bosquejar no me atrevo
Ni sus dedos, ni sus uñas,
No se quejen las garduñas,
O chille un Cristiano nuevo:
Pero añadiré sencillo,
Que si le encuentro en la calle,
En lugar de saludalle
Le doi mi capa y bolsillo.
¡Qué juramentos! ¡Qué por vidas!
Y otras voces conocidas
Tan solo entre jugadores.
Acá gana una judia,
Alli las sotas se dan,
Piérdese un buen ganarán
O quiebra contra judia.
Alli sin soga, se amarra,
Se apunta sin escopeta,
Sin necesidad se aprieta.
Se mata sin cimitarra:
Tambien se entierra sin ser
Doctor ni sepulturero,
Y en fin se pierde el dinero
Sin oir, sin hablar, sin ver.
Estos, amiguito, son
Los primores, que sin tasa
Se encuentran en esa casa,
Que llamas de diversion.
Y no siento, ciertamente,
Haber jugado y perdido,
Sino el haber conocido
Pocilga tan indecente.
[16] I have seen him join the religious processions at Madrid, but with evident indifference and impatience. In the really interesting solemnities of the 2nd of May, (to commemorate the earliest victims of the Revolution,) in the presence of the Court, the Nuncio, and the dignified ecclesiastics of Spain, he played idly with his wax taper and his pocket handkerchief, and walked out of church in the middle of mass. If he ever amused himself with embroidering garments for the Virgin, (which I do not believe,) or feigned a special devotion in the ecclesiastical ceremonies of his country, he has not thought it necessary to wear the mask of hypocrisy any longer.